


The Night Manager

by rotrude



Category: Merlin (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Hotels, M/M, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-11-29
Updated: 2016-11-29
Packaged: 2018-09-03 03:04:27
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,837
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8693926
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rotrude/pseuds/rotrude
Summary: Merlin is night manager at the Cameloode Grand when he checks in one obnoxious guest, one Arthur Pendragon.





	

**Author's Note:**

> Based on a prompt Brunettepet gave me in April, and that I've been slowly fullfilling. Basically a ficlet.

Water shines in gaps between the cobblestones and on the leaves attached to the creepers that cover the bricks lining the alley's houses, on the steps that lead up to the doors of red bricked mansions. Merlin swerves around the former and admires the latter, the greenery of the vines framing entryways, the ornate lion headed knockers. He cycles right past the bug house with the blue facade and the flower stall, which Hendrike has been manning this winter. When she sees him streak past she waves, a shower of petals lifting up. 

When the bulk of the Cameloode Grand comes into view, he brakes, stands on one pedal, and hops off. He chains the bike to the rail and knuckles in the code. At a trot he makes the back entrance and walks into the changing rooms. He crosses Gwen as he passes and singsongs a hello. She shakes her head. 

“I don't know how you can be so chirpy,” she calls out. “Just when you're taking the graveyard shift.”

Merlin leans his weight against the door to the changing rooms. “Well, you said it. It's the quiet shift. No bothersome guests, nothing happening, nothing but peace.”

“Dream on, Merlin,” she says, wrapping her scarf more carefully around her neck. “Dream on.”

When the door's closed on her, Merlin enters the staff room. Lancelot is pulling on socks, but is otherwise almost in the buff. He wears black briefs and the rest is skin, bare and smooth, water droplets drying on his body.

If Lancelot wasn't taken, Merlin'd make a pass. 

Lancelot looks up and walks to his locker. “Hey, Merlin. How are you doing?”

“Fine.” Merlin puts his rucksack down on the bench and goes to his own. “You?”

As Lancelot puts on his street clothes, Merlin dons his uniform, starched white shirt, charcoal jacket, black tie, lapel pin representing two crossed keys. 

“I was thinking of proposing.”

Merlin sends a button flying. “Woah, marriage, isn't that a bit quick?”

“She's the one, Merlin,” Lancelot says. “I've known from the very first moment. Gwen's gold. So why should I hesitate?”

“No reason.” Merlin's heart warms more that a little. He always falls hook, line and sinker for happy endings, especially when they concern such good people as Lancelot and Gwen. “I should wish you good luck then. And a happy future.”

“She's still got to say yes,” Lancelot says, smiling sheepishly. “But I hope a table at Bel Canto will convince her.”

“Aren't you tired of posh places?” Merlin knocks at the walls. 

“A little bit to be quiet honest.” Lancelot's shoulders rise in a shrug. “But Gwen should get all the best.”

“I hope she says, yes.” Merlin fiddles with the cuffs until the missing button is no longer noticeable. 

Lancelot zips his jacket and says. “Thanks, Merlin, I'll let you know how it goes.”

Striding across a plush red and gold Turkish carpet and passing under a Murano tear drop chandelier, Merlin takes his place at the reception desk. It's thick and real mahogany, quite shiny, placed in between two glass showcases, one displaying a diamond bracelet that sparkles like a minor sun – one which would incidentally take Merlin two life times to pay for –, the other a painting from a local artist, a composition made up of gentle pastels and soothing vaguely pointillist spots. Merlin stands with his back straight and his arms by his side, wearing a carefully bland expression while keeping an eye on the swing door.

Rain comes down in thick sheets now and puddles have turned into lagoons. Wind billows swipe forwards, fattening the awning and furling and unfurling the flags the decorate the entrance. Highlighting the big fat raindrops that fall slantwise from the grey sky, headlight beams fend the twilight. The car, a black limousine with a sleek rear, stops on the far side of the forecourt. The head porter fits his cap lower on his skull and tramps across the paving, the hemline of his trousers changing colour it gets so wet. The valet opens a big black umbrella with the hotel logo stylised on the side. A man, blond, in a formal suit, red tie, emerges from the car and, briefcase in hand, ducks right under it.

Heads bent against wind and rain, valet and guest jog towards the entrance. Once the guest has cleared the revolving doors, the valet shakes the umbrella closed, and moves to stand with perfect rigidity under the awning.

The guest pulls at his jacket and marches across the carpet and right towards Merlin's desk. Settling the briefcase at his feet, the guest says, “Pendragon. I should have a suite.”

Merlin smiles his polite on-duty smile and wakes the computer. While the guest thumbs at his phone, Merlin keys in his password and checks the arrivals list. The name Pendragon is third from the bottom. He clicks on it. “Yes, we do have a reservation in your name--” Merlin makes a face at the screen. “But I'm afraid it's not a suite. It's room 403.”

“No, it's a mistake,” the guest says, without ceasing to look at his phone. “It's a suite. The Presidential one.”

Merlin checks under the guest's name for traces of any prior or subsequent reservations, but the system calls up none. “May it be under any other name than yours?”

“Try Shallott LTD.” The guest looks up from his mobile.

Merlin types in the words. “No, I'm sorry, sir, I'm afraid there's nothing under that name either,” When the muscles in Mr Pendragon's jaw start to tick, Merlin puts on his best reassuring voice and adds, “I assure you room 403 is absolutely top notch too.” This isn't a five star establishment for nothing. The smallest room puts Merlin's flat over in Westpoort to shame. “It's got a splendid view of the canal, DVD with surround system, plush carpets and a very comfortable king bed.”

“It might be an acceptable room for some people's standards,” Mr Pendragon says, his lips thinning. “But I'm tired, my back aches, my brain's on fire, and I want the comforts of a proper suite.”

“Let's see what I can do for you, sir.” In the hopes of satisfying Mr Pendragon, Merlin taps at the computer. He coughs into his fist. “I'm afraid both the Presidential, Van Gogh, and Queen of Cameloode suites are unavailable.”

Mr Pendragon huffs. “Can't you do anything to make them available?”

Merlin doesn't really understand guests sometimes. They really think they deserve some kind of preferential treatment only by virtue of being stinking rich. They believe, for some reason he can't quite fathom, that everything they wish for will be accorded to them by divine mandate. He supposes that if you get used to people pandering to you, you will always expect ordinary mortals to go out of their way for you. His face a carefully cultivated mask of polite serviceableness, Merlin says, “I'm sorry, sir, those rooms are occupied.”

Mr Pendragon arches an eyebrow. “And you can't move those guests to room 403?”

Merlin clears his throat. “No, sir, I can't possibly. They have the correct reservation.”

Mr Pendragon's brow crinkles. “Wait a moment, will you.” His phone goes bright as he activates it, then he wanders off, pacing a corner of the lobby. When the person on the other end of the line picks up, he starts speaking. He's not loud, and he's not making a scene exactly, but he does say the words, “Unacceptable, definitely more than an oversight”. Mr Pendragon stabs at his phone and ends the call. Mobile pocketed, he marches over to Merlin's position. “There's been a mix-up. You have one of our trainees' reservation and the Avalon has mine.”

Hope buds inside Merlin. Maybe he can have that quiet night, after all. “Would you like me to call you a taxi? You can be at the Avalon in ten to fifteen minutes.”

Thunder crashes in the distance and a spot of lightning backlights all the windows. The chandelier gives a rattle. 

“No, no suite is worth braving this weather again,” Mr Pendragon says, looking pinchedly at the panes. Even though double glazed, they look flimsy in the storm. “I'll take room 304.”

“I'll get you your key.” Merlin smiles without moving the corners of his lips too far north. “I'll just check you in.”

Merlin gives Mr Pendragon a form to fill, and logs the data in. He takes a swipe of his credit card and gives him his card key. When he's done, he says, “I hope you enjoy your stay at the Cameloode Grand, sir.”

“I doubt it,” Mr Pendragon says. “But thank you.” 

He picks up his briefcase and disappears into the lift.

Merlin heaves a sigh. With that seen to, he's probably in for a quiet night. Nobody's going to check in in this weather and it's late enough most guests are asleep. Merlin settles in for the night. He's been turning on his stool for some ten minutes, when his phone rings. “Night manager, how can I help you?”

“My room is cold,” Mr Pendragon tells him. “I have no champagne and the amount of tea bags I have is insufficient.”

“Is the heating system working?” Merlin hasn't been alerted to any malfunction, but in a hotel as big as this one anything is possible. Coffee machines will refuse to switch on. Hair-dryers will only splutter cold air and the air con won't turn on. “You can check by--”

“I know how to check and, yes, it's working,” Mr Pendragon says with a slight huff. “My room is still damp.”

“I see.” Merlin doesn't want to risk too much on this answer, not with a guest like Pendragon. “Would you like me to check if there's any other room available?”

“I have to move?” Mr Pendragon grunts.

“I can send up a porter to you.” Merlin's not sure Mr Pendragon would entrust his briefcase to Percival, but he's got to make the offer. “He can be up in five minutes.”

“Look, I'm tired.” For the first time Mr Pendragon really sounds something other than peeved. “I'd rather not change rooms.”

Merlin doesn't really know what to say. If Mr Pendragon won't swap rooms, Merlin doesn't get how he can help with his situation. “There's more blankets on the top shelf in the wardrobe?”

“Fact is it's the canal,” Mr Pendragon tells him. “It oozes damp.”

Merlin wants to roll his eyes. “That's Amsterdam for you, sir. Lots of water. I'm sure that with an extra blanket and--”

Pendragon scoffs. “I'm not paying for a five star hotel just to shiver in the draft all night long.”

Merlin bites his lip, closes his eyes, and thinks calming thoughts. “That offer to change rooms still stands.”

“Told you.” Mr Pendragon sighs. “Too done in.”

Merlin grabs the receiver so tight he's sure his knuckles must be turning white. “Then I don't see what I can do other then send up more blankets, sir. An extra duvet?”

“Bring an extra duvet, yes.”

“I'll tell housekeeping to--”

“No, come up yourself.” Mr Pendragon's voice lowers. “And bring tea and champagne, will you.”

As he listens to the end call signal, Merlin stares at the receiver, his mouth hanging open. Once he's put it down, he mutters, “Posh knobs.”

Even so, he warns the valet outside, and then marches into the kitchens. “I need a bottle of Champagne and a stash of teabags.”

Gwaine, the under cook, jumps upright from his perch on a stool and says, “What now?”

“Yes, now.” Merlin tries to shrug. “Guest wants it.”

“Dinner champagne eh,” Gwaine says. “Guest up for some nookie, eh?”

Merlin knows his guest is alone, but he can't divulge that kind of information. Discretion is a must in such an establishment as this one. “Just pass on a Veuve Cliquot.” It's not the most expensive kind they have, but Merlin doesn't want to make it look like he's trying to get the guest's bill to mount. “And a selection of teas.”

“Shouldn't housekeeping get him the tea?” Gwaine says, as he gestures for a trainee to go get the champagne. “It's kind of their job.”

“Guest wants me.” Merlin quirks his mouth to the side. 

Gwaine whistles. “Indecent proposal?”

“What, no!” If Merlin thinks about it, their guest is fit. Blond and tall and the right kind of buff, with wide shoulders and pectorals that fill his shirt to a near stretch. But that's not the sort of musing Merlin should entertain at all. It's so unprofessional. “He just wants to see me in person so he can complain.”

“Tell yourself that.” Gwaine waggles his eyebrow. “Oh, there's our trainee with the champagne.”

The boy, a spotty lad of about eighteen or so, hands Merlin a bottle he cradles as though it were a baby. Merlin places it on the tray Gwaine hands him. A handful of scattered tea bags go on a porcelain breakfast dish they rest a silver dome over. So set, Merlin hoists up the tray, clacks his tongue, and tells Gwaine, “See you.”

Merlin takes the lift to the fourth floor and, with the tray carefully balanced on his palms, he stalks down the carpeted corridor. When he comes upon 403, he knocks lightly. “Night manager.”

Mr Pendragon swings the door open. He's lost his jacket and tie and he's in his socks. “There you are.” He makes way for Merlin. “Tell me it's not cold in here.”

Merlin walks into the room and deposits the tray onto the desk. “It's a bit colder than down in the lobby.” Though that's probably just by a couple of degrees, Merlin finds. And it's pretty toasty in the lobby. “I can fix something with housekeeping for you.”

“I don't think bothering them is necessary at this point. I'll burrow under an extra blanket,” Pendragon says. “At least I have my champagne now.”

Merlin senses an imminent complaint to management on Mr Pendragon's part. “I'll try to change the air con settings.” He crosses over to the panel. “You can notch heat up by two degrees. Do you want me to try?”

Mr Pendragon opens the champagne bottle. “Nah, I don't it'll make much of a difference.”

“Well then...” Merlin casts about for solutions. Other than ramping up the heat, he can think of precious few. “I'll have a heater sent up, sir.”

“Yes, do that.” Mr Pendragon pours the champagne into the glass. “Want some?”

“I'm on duty, sir.” The bastard shrugs at Merlin and Merlin feels the urge to kick him in the shin. How can a grown man not understand that Merlin is doing his job here and must respect rules is beyond him. There's a carelessness in Mr Pendragon's thoughtlessness that puts Merlin's hackles up. “We can't all indulge.”

“Right, yes.” Mr Pendragon drinks, squeezes his eyes as if his lids were heavy, and then takes a further sip. “Well, I suppose you can go.”

Not even a thank you then, that's what Merlin's got to work with. “Sir.”

Mr Pendragon sighs, sinks into the desk chair and stares at his glass. 

Merlin closes the door behind him.

Back in the lobby Merlin checks in an old baroness whose train was late and barely avoids being bitten on the hand by her ferocious Pomeranian. He winds the grandfather clock standing in the shadows of the grand marble staircase, and paces across the length of the lobby. When he's done with that, he oversees inventories and answers to mail complaints, promising the Cameloode Grand will do better in future and offering free night stays. 

It's three o'clock when his desk phone rings. “Night Manager.”

“Wi-Fi doesn't work,” Mr Pendragon says.

Merlin is working on it so he doesn't see how that can be possible. “What sort of device do you have, sir?”

“An Apple Macbook.”

When Merlin's finished sorting out Mr Pendragon it's four.

 

***** 

“I'll have the concierge organise that for you, madam.” Merlin smiles and takes a note on his pad. “I'll let you know tomorrow morning.”

“Not before ten,” Mrs Shaw says. “We mean to sleep in.”

“I will remind our concierge of that,” Merlin says.

“Thank you for your help, Mr Emrys.” Mrs Shaw inclines her head at him and retreats to the lift area.

Mr Pendragon comes to the desk next and smiles. “This time my reservation is good.” 

“I'm glad to hear that, sir,” Merlin says, hoping he's not going to get a repeat performance from last month. “Is it under your own name?”

“Yes.” Mr Pendragon shows him his mobile's screen so that Merlin can see the reservation code. 

Merlin types in the series of numbers. “I'll just be a moment.”

“Look, about last month,” Mr Pendragon says, shifting his feet. “I was out of line. I know it's no excuse but I was tired, just out of a terrible meeting, and well, when I got here I just wanted to relax.”

“I completely understand that.” Merlin thinks it was more than simple tiredness that made Mr Pendragon so obnoxious. Mr Pendragon is so pampered that he just doesn't realise how he comes across. That's probably just par for the course for the Grand Cameloode's guests, but that won't stop Merlin thinking he was overly petulant. But Merlin can't say so however. His job's on the line. “Don't worry, sir.”

“But I do.” Mr Pendragon seeks out Merlin's gaze with his. “I've been thinking about my behaviour all this month and I must apologise.”

“No need, sir,” Merlin says, handing Mr Pendragon his key card. “I assure you it's all right.”

“I see you're not ready to accept my apologies and I get that, I do.” Mr Pendragon pockets his key. “I hope I can make it up for it.”

Merlin blinks. He oughtn't. He should present an unflappable front, be all around pleasant without displaying any personality trait at all. But he's only human after all and gapes a little. When he recovers, he says, “Sir, there's absolutely no need for you to feel that way.”

“Oh there is.” Mr Pendragon walks backwards towards the lifts so he still facing Merlin. “Believe me, there is.”

Merlin's left with his mouth hanging open.

 

**** 

With snow freezing his hands, Merlin fumbles with his bike chains, looping one end of it around the rail. His grip gives though and the chain slips and Merlin has to refasten it around the bar. By then though he's completely red-knuckled and has lost all feeling in his fingers. His nails are fairly blue too. When he enters by the back door, he blows warm air on them. He can sense the rush of the incoming tingle but his fingers still feel preternaturally fat.

When he enters the changing room, he places both hands on the radiator. Warmth is seeping back into his phalanxes when he notices the flowers sitting on the central bench. They don't come in a bunch but sit in a pot. They mushroom outwards in a cascade of pale blue, the petals velvety, cupping a heart of black filaments. Dew still beads them and they release a fresh, balmy spring scent that's wholly out of season.

Merlin is checking them out, when Lancelot waltzes in. 

“Hei, Lance,” he says, “how did your date with Gwen go?”

Lancelot beams. “She said yes.” His eyes grow bigger and a smile tilts his mouth sideways. “We're officially engaged.”

Merlin strides over to Lancelot, gives him a big hug, and, arms still around him, lifts him off his feet. “Congratulations, Lance, you lucky bastard.”

They laugh, totter, crash into the wall. Because Lancelot's heavier than he looks and Merlin's back's protesting, Merlin puts him down. He doesn't stop grinning and black slapping him though. “Really, Lancelot, that's... that's great.”

“I know.” Lancelot dips his head, but he can't hide his smile or blush. “I know how blessed I am.”

Merlin smiles from ear to ear. “I want an invite to your wedding.”

“You'll have it.” Lancelot's bite his lip. “Anyway it seems like I'm not the only who's happy in love.”

Merlin's brow crinkles deeply. “What?”

“The flowers.” Lancelot tilts his head toward the vase sitting on the window sill. It's full of blue bell-shaped blooms lolling downwards. “They're for you.”

Merlin peeks over at them. “Nah, they can't be.” No one's ever given Merlin flowers. Not that Merlin's ever craved them. He's just highlighting the unlikelihood. “They must be for Sefa or Mary or any of the other--”

Lancelot smacks his lips together making a slapping sound. “Nuh-uh. Go look.”

Admittedly Merlin's interest is tickled. He walks over and smells the flowers. “Nice.”

“There's a card.” Lancelot lifts his eyebrows and points.

Lancelot is right. Glue tacks a square little envelope to the base of the vase. It's good stationery, white with a blue edge, lightly scented, like summer. Merlin inhales the scent that comes off it, lifts the flap and eases the card out. He reads it aloud. “A bunch of flowers is a poor reward for the best night manager this side of the Channel, but they reminded me of your eyes, so I thought you should have them.”

“See, they're for the night manager,” Lancelot says. “Aka you.”

Merlin gapes. “There's another night manager and we have shifts.”

“He has dark eyes and those are for you.”

Merlin acknowledges that they might be with a humming sound. “Still, I wouldn't get too excited about this. Maybe it's just some kind of joke.”

“I don't think it's a joke,” Lancelot says.

“Besides.” Merlin pushes the card back into the envelope. “You know how rich people are. Sometimes they'll tip magnificently just to show they can.”

Lancelot shrugs a little, though he looks like he wants to say something else, like Merlin's to be pitied for not believing in one true love or some such thing. “Flowers aren't a tip. They're a romantic gesture.”

“Or a fancy whim of some sort.” Merlin refuses to get excited about this. Flowers are nice and all but, depending on the giver, they aren't necessarily a token of affection. “Let's not get ahead of ourselves.”

Lancelot sighs. “I wish you would rethink this and be more open to love.” He looks at Merlin with a kicked puppy look stamped on his face.

Merlin opens the door to his locker. “Well, for now my one and only romance is going to be with my desk.”

 

**** 

Merlin slips behind his desk. It's a quiet night and the lobby is empty but for Arthur Pendragon. He sits in one of the large armchairs lined up along the windows facing the courtyard. A computer rests on the low mahogany table in front of him. Next to his laptop are stacks of papers, a tablet, and a portable printer. A cable connects a phone to the notebook. As no one comes up to him, Merlin watches Mr Pendragon for a bit. 

He seems very focused. As he stares at his screen, which is split between graphs and strings of numbers, his eyes go small. He takes notes and makes calls. Merlin does his best not to overhear, but he seems so decisive on the phone, so assured he's right, Merlin's interest is snagged. When Mr Pendragon gets animated, he starts pacing. And when someone contradicts him on the other end of the line, he stops, goes rigid, and starts volleying off reasons why he's right and people should do what he says. 

As he works at his station, Merlin can't help but smile, fingers flying over the keyboard.

The grandfather clock in the hall has chimed two, when Mr Pendragon gathers his gear and comes up to him, bleary-eyed but grinning. “I'm feeling peckish.”

“We have a fantastic twenty-four hour service.” Merlin lifts the receiver.

“I have no doubt.” Mr Pendragon deposits all his stuff on Merlin's desk. It looks like a mini executive office right now. “I don't fancy eating alone.”

Merlin's mouth twists. “Our concierge can provide.” It's not something they advertise per se. They're a luxury establishment. But clients will have company, and there's nothing doing when it comes to that. The best concierges will always, albeit reluctantly, have something on offer. “Let me contact him.”

“No, you haven't got it.” Mr Pendragon replaces the phone in the cradle. “I was fancying eating something with you.”

“With me?” Merlin blinks and his heartbeat speeds a notch.

“You're here.” Mr Pendragon touches his chest with his open palm. It's a nice hand, big and strongly boned, with nicely trimmed nails. At his wrist a round-cased gold watch shines. “I'm here.”

“I can't leave my post.” It's strange that Merlin should even want to, especially considering how rude Mr Pendragon was to him when they first met. But Merlin is tempted. He can't deny it. It must have been a very long night. “I'd be fired.”

“I'm not suggesting you leave your post,” Mr Pendragon said. “I'm suggesting you eat here with me.”

“I can't litter the desk.” Merlin is dying for a pizza, but that's not something he can do. “It's more than my job's worth.”

“And here I was thinking we could share some beef Stroganoff.”

Merlin turns his nose up and laughs. “I've much simpler tastes.”

“Don't tell me you're a fan of MacDonald's.” There's a look of near horror on Mr Pendragon's face. 

“No way, no.” Merlin's watched all the documentaries.

“Tofu fan then?”

Merlin chuckles. “Nah, not close.”

“Then what do you like?” Mr Pendragon taps his chin with his finger.

As his phone rings, Merlin says, “That's for you to find out.”

“Mission accepted.” Mr Pendragon picks up his gear and walks to the lifts. 

Merlin watches him go with a strange reluctance that twists his stomach in knots. 

 

**** 

Dawn flickers across the brick faces of the houses opposite, like a guttering flame. It pinks up the courtyard and gilds the flags a golden colour. Merlin gives his badge to Ranulf, and slinks out of his position behind the desk. “I hope your shift's less eventful than mine.”

“Why?” Ranulf makes a face.

“I hope never to have to rescue a drunken opera singer from an empty bathtub ever again.”

Ranulf's eyebrows converge, but he knows not to ask questions. He's had weird shit happen on shift too. As a rule his day job might be calmer. People tend to be wiser by day than by night. But they're dealing with the same sort of people, the same clientele, with the same pretensions. 

As Ranulf takes his place at the desk, Merlin slips out towards the back. He's exhausted. Though he's used to being up at nights, of course he is, lethargy eats at his consciousness. That might be because after Mr Pendragon went to his room, his night turned into the shift of hell. First the singer, then two youngsters got the fire alarm off, when there was no fire of course. Then he had to check in an entire group fresh off the airport tourists, so he had to help the porter with their luggage. Poor old Geoffrey's back can't handle all of that. To top it all off, he got to fend off a group of journalists trying to get in the back. The tip off Lady Gaga was at theirs had of course done the trick. So now Merlin's knackered. His back hurts, his eyes are about to close, and he's starting to picture dream images while standing. 

It can't be good. 

Merlin is pulling on his jumper, when Lancelot comes in. “You just clocking in?”

“Yeah,” Lancelot says. “Are you off?”

“Yes. I'm going—” Merlin stands, yanks up his trousers and tightens his belt. “--to face-plant directly into my pillow.”

“Happy dreams then--” Lancelot changes into his uniform.

Merlin's out the back, ready to get to his bike, when he runs into someone. 

“There you are,” Mr Pendragon says. “One of the maids said you'd go off duty right about now.”

“It's six in the morning.” Merlin gapes in Mr Pendragon's face. It's becoming a habit with Merlin. “You went to sleep at two.”

“I wanted a chance to have that meal with you.” Mr Pendragon scrapes a hand through his hair. “I was thinking breakfast.”

“Breakfast?”

“If you want to that is--” Mr Pendragon's mouth droops at the corners and his eyes lose some of their brightness. 

“Breakfast?” Merlin hoists his hold-all up his shoulder. “Why not. I know a place.”

Though Mr Pendragon – Arthur – insists on a taxi, they take tram 9. The cafe is in the Plantage district in the street running parallel between Entrepotdok and Hoogte Kadijk. The seats are upholstered in red leather, the bar is lacquered and pictures of fifties pin-ups camp above it. While Arthur says he's relieved this is not one of those coffee shops, which is the standard Amsterdam joke, Merlin orders and pays for them both – though Arthur insists it should be on him. Because it's so early they find a seat in the back, by the window. It's not Merlin's usual, but it has a nicer view. Perks of unearthly hours.

“So,” Arthur asks, stirring his spoon clockwise in his coffee, “how long have you been in Amsterdam?”

Merlin cups his mug with his cold hands. “Three years.”

“Wow.” Arthur's eyebrows bunch up. “So long.”

Merlin says, “You thought I was a newbie to the city?”

“I don't know.” Arthur drinks. “You're so British, I didn't expect you to be a veritable expat.”

“Mmm.” Merlin sips his tea. “Before the whole Brexit thing, I was hoping to get permanent residence. It doesn't look quite so good now. But what about you?”

“You know where I'm from.” Arthur acknowledges that with a nod. “What else would you like to find out?”

“Well, it's easy to guess you're a businessman,” Merlin says. “The rest though...”

“I work for Lyoness Ltd.” Arthur's mouth twists a little. “I have little free time and I'm always travelling.”

“The last bit is nice.” Merlin loves seeing the world. It's half the reason why he applied for the type of job he has in the first place.

 

“Not really.” Arthur lifts his spoon out of his coffee, puts it in his mouth, licks at it, lets his cheek bulge with it. “I don't get to see the places I'm in.”

“Not even for a few hours?” What kind of job is that? Merlin's shifts are taxing enough, but even he gets his free days, his afternoons off. As long as he's there nights five days a week, the rest of the time is his to do with as he pleases. 

“Oh sometimes I can sneak out for a few hours.” Arthur shows his palms. “But mostly it's hotels, meetings, conferences with me.”

“Like yesterday night.” Merlin remembers Arthur working. 

“Yeah.” Arthur looks to his watch. “In fact I have a meeting at eleven.”

“It's still seven,” Merlin says. “Plenty of time.”

“Yeah.” Arthur smiles and the gesture rounds his eyes. “Thank God. Because there's a lot I want to ask you.”

They spend the next twenty minutes engaged in small talk. Arthur tells Merlin how much he really hates technology and how he'd like to go live on a farm without even electric lights. Merlin says he doubts that while Arthur insists that he'd love it. When Merlin asks Arthur if he'd like running water Arthur concedes that he would. “I have the perfect place for you then,” Merlin says, his tea forgotten. “It's this chalet near Davos, right on a hillock at the foot of the Alps. It's all wooden, with a sloping roof, and the balcony's always blooming with flowers, come rain or shine, winter or summer.”

“You're selling it?”

Merlin laughs till he has tears in his eyes. “Lord, no. I'm not that rich.”

“Then how do you know of it?” Arthur tips his head to the side.

“I used to cycle right past it every day on my way to work,” Merlin says. “I dreamed of living there for a bit, having a place just like that.”

“You worked in Switzerland too?” Arthur leans closer to the edge of the table.

“Mmm.” Merlin bobs his head up and down. “Because of my job, I've been around.”

“I'm interested.” Arthur rests his chin on his fist, elbow on the table. “Where have you been?”

Merlin tells Arthur about his career – from Victoria, Seychelles, to San Pedro de Atacama, to Davos. He has something to say about each place, a memory to connect to each. He used to go diving in Beau Vallon on his days off and once saw a shark close by. It just swam past him, its tail brushing Merlin's leg. He talks about the birds that flew right past his head in Chile. And about the brilliance of the snow up in the Alps. “It had a sheen to it, like fairy tales.”

“You're lucky,” Arthur tells him. “You've experienced quite a lot.”

“You must have too.” Merlin can't think a globe trotter like Arthur hasn't. “Your passport was full of stamps.”

“There's a difference.”

Merlin kicks up an eyebrow. “I don't get it.”

“I told you I rarely go out at all,” Arthur says. “Once you're off, you're off. You get to live the places you're in.”

“You're out and about now.” Merlin's brought Arthur here because he thought he'd enjoy himself. “You're experiencing the place, sucking in the atmosphere.”

“But that's only because of you,” Arthur says, shaking his head. “You were the one.”

Merlin's eyes widen. “That's...”

“Sad I know.” Arthur takes the last of his coffee. “But what will you have. It's the nature of the job.”

They don't talk much after that. They finish their orders. Arthur pops into the toilets for a moment. They split the bill. When they're in the café's doorway, they look at each other. Merlin thinks Arthur's about to ask him out again. Though he started out certainly disliking Arthur, he feels like he wants to say yes, like he wants to have more of this, a chance to get to know this other aspect of Arthur, when he's not rude, or overbearing. But Arthur doesn't ask him, and Merlin ducks his head against the wind, saying into his scarf, “I hope you'll stay with us again.”

He rues the words all the way home. 

***** 

 

Gwen and Lancelot marry three weeks later. They choose not to go for a church wedding. On a Saturday morning they and the twenty people they have invited have snacks at De Zotte. They eat _bruid suikas_ and drink spiced wine before going to the registry office for the all the proper legalese. The party that takes place afterwards is a merry affair, full of laughter and teasing, love and well wishes. 

Merlin dances all afternoon, makes sure to congratulate Lance and Gwen a least twice, noshes on the buffet, and chats so much his ears ring. By the end of the evening his shirt is wine stained, his tie has come loose, and he's much the worse for wear. Even so he makes for the hotel and another shift. With Lance and Gwen marrying he's one of those on call. 

Just as he takes his place behind the reception desk, Arthur comes up.

Merlin smiles wider than he should and says, “Mr Pendragon, it's a pleasure to have you back here.”

That sentence wipes the grin from Arthur's face. “Yes, I have a reservation.”

Merlin doesn't need to ask Arthur for his passport. It's already been recorded by the system. “The Bellevue Suite.”

“Yes.” Arthur purses his lips. “Thank you.”

Merlin passes Arthur the key. “You're angry.”

“No.” Arthur shrugs, lips out in a moue of discontent. “I'm not.”

“Oh, yes, you are.” Merlin hadn't dreamt that tone, that expression.

Arthur picks up his suitcase. “I don't recall vocalising my displeasure.”

“But you're feeling it.” Merlin is sure.

“You called me Mr Pendragon,” Arthur says, slipping the key card in his pocket. “What would you have had me do?”

“I don't know.” Merlin hefts both shoulders up. “That's your name.”

“You know very well what I mean.” He ducks his head but his lips stay clearly pressed. “I thought-- I thought...”

Merlin realises a second too late. “I'm on duty. I can't call you Arthur while I'm on the clock.”

“Why?”

“Because it's against the rules.” When he was hired Merlin got a ten page print out of those.

“I never intended to have you fired,” Arthur says. “Now if you'll excuse me.”

Though he should never leave the desk unmanned, Merlin chases Arthur to the lifts. “I mean it. I just had to.”

“I see.” Arthur pushes the lift's call button. His brow is knit.

“Look, how about I violate all the rules in the book and I ask you out?”

“I'm not--” Arthur watches the lift's doors open. “I don't mean to strong arm you into anything.”

“You're not.” Though he'd do it if needed, Merlin can't exactly shout that from the rooftop. “I asked, didn't I?”

“You did.” Arthur's lips go crooked at the side.

“So you're saying yes?” Merlin switches his gaze from Arthur to the desk. Old Countess Monmouth is standing by it, tapping her foot. 

“Why, I don't know.”

“Come on, Arthur,” Merlin says, fidgeting in place. “I'm risking my job here making the Countess wait.”

“Well, I--” Arthur turns around, clocks the Countess too, and smiles. “Why, yes. Now that you mention it.”

“Good.” Merlin's heart clops in his chest. “Be in the lobby at 7 am tomorrow morning.”

“Sure you don't want to sleep on it?”

“Positive.” Merlin grins before hurrying over to the baroness. Over his shoulder he calls out. “Be there.”

Once he's behind the reception desk again, his face loses again all expression. “Welcome to the Cameloode Grand, Countess. How can I help you?”

 

***** 

The canal is ringed with houses, bars and restaurants, with chefs working inside open windows just metres from the walkway. Bicycles are tied to the railings. Puddles crowd each other on the path, fallen leaves soaking into them.

“So what brings you back to Amsterdam?” Merlin asks, walking alongside Arthur down the path.

“A business deal.” Arthur probes at the dead foliage with his foot. “The fine locale, the atmosphere.”

“It's unbeatable.” Merlin trudges on with his nose up in the air, smelling the season on it. “I love it too.”

“Yeah, I mean--”” Arthur says, brushing closer to Merlin to avoid passers-by coming from the other direction. “--What's better than starting business in such a nice environment?.”

“You have me there.” Merlin looks to the pavement. It glistens, as if it's lit up by fairy lights. 

“Yeah.” Arthur nods to himself. “Yeah.”

They continue abreast, hands in their pockets, shoulders touching. They make it past the canal onto a side street awash in flower shops. They move counter the flow of people, separating to let others pass. At the end of the lane, Arthur grabs him by the shoulder, crowding him into the back entrance to a café. “Actually, no, I wasn't quite so honest.”

Merlin's eyebrows meet. “You weren't?”

“No.” Arthur moves his head from side to side. “I could have delegated.”

“Delegated?”

“Sent someone else.”

Merlin rolls his eyes. “Yeah, I know what it means.”

“And the truth is,” Arthur goes on mostly unperturbed. “I took the assignment myself because I wanted to come to Amsterdam again.”

Merlin's eyebrow doesn't smooth. “You said you liked the place. I get it.”

“No, I wanted to come to Amsterdam to meet you.” Arthur's fingers dig in both of Merlin's shoulders. “I had a reservation at the Westin. I had them cancel it so that I could stay at the Grand.”

“Oh.” Merlin blanks of thought. Does that mean... “I see.”

“So that we could continue where we left off,” Arthur says. “But then you...”

Merlin called Arthur 'Mr Pendragon' and stepped all over that. “God, I'm sorry.”

“So I'm trying to establish whether there's a chance for me...” He licks his lips. “With you.”

Merlin's never been a master at communication, he can see that. He never says the right words and while he picks up on others' moods, he can't always suit them, or soothe them. He may feel for people but he bumbles when it comes to expressing that. Aware of all this, Merlin knows he has only one choice. He pushes off the wall, leans in and kisses Arthur's on the lips.

He can feel the breath Arthur expels when he gasps. His mouth shapes itself around Merlin's and by then, they're nuzzling, rubbing mouths together, opening them with their tongues. The kiss goes deep, becomes intimate, sends Merlin reeling, till he's losing his grip on grim reality and living in a world of golden perfection. 

When they separate, Arthur says, “Does that mean you're giving me a chance?”

“You can bet on it.” Merlin moves in for another kiss. “Mr Pendragon.”

 

The End


End file.
